


Inescapable Consequence (Yet another) sequel to "Consequences"

by Airelle



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-15
Updated: 2012-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-29 14:32:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Airelle/pseuds/Airelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>First published in ON THE EDGE, 1994. Also archived at The Hatstand and on Proslib CD</p><p>To understand this story, it is necessary to read Consequences, at the above archive, as this is my own interpretation of the events and what could happen afterwards.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Inescapable Consequence (Yet another) sequel to "Consequences"

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Consequences](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/6435) by Tarot and A.N. Other. 



> First published in ON THE EDGE, 1994. Also archived at The Hatstand and on Proslib CD
> 
> To understand this story, it is necessary to read Consequences, at the above archive, as this is my own interpretation of the events and what could happen afterwards.

Ray Doyle was weak; he knew it, and he was disgusted deeply by it. But quite not as much as he was disgusted by his partner. His friend! That psycho still dared to pretend to be his friend, his lover even. Bodie had dismissed the rape with an easiness that bewildered Doyle. He had known Bodie could be callous; he had never thought he would be at the receiving end of that callousness.

Building on Doyle's uncertainty, on his frustrated love and desire for Ann Holly, and on an hefty intake of alcohol, Bodie had brought the jungle to London, the conduct of savages into a relatively civilized world. Doyle nurtured no illusions about himself, or his chosen line of work. He was little better than a paid mercenary. The fact he worked for Queen and country, the fact he indulged in intellectual guilt trips every time the game went out of hand, did not make him a man of honor. It only permitted him to remain functional in a warped way, to evacuate the tensions that would have eaten at his determination. Ultimately, it made him a perfect, obedient, thinking killing machine.

Yet he knew he could never, ever, have done to Bodie what Bodie had done to him that accursed night, a week ago. Doyle was still unable to understand why he had responded sexually to Bodie's advances after that, and that was the point of his present musings. Able to worry a thought like a dog a bone, he had spent the last five days thinking about what had happened, at the same time consistently and pointedly avoiding Bodie outside their working relationship. He had seen the other man's certainty and smugness slowly eroding as the days passed, and he derived a certain unhealthy pleasure from it.

Desire, he must admit, was still there; but he was now able to control it, refusing himself a passing gratification to try and put things in order before going on with his life.

They had known two days of passion after the fated night. Doyle had thrown himself headlong in it without reservation, aiming to burn it as quickly as possible, and it had worked, to a point. He understood now that the intensity of his response meant that he probably could have loved Bodie under different circumstances. They certainly fitted together sexually, and they had a lot of things in common; they were compatible, and they were - or had been - best friends. If one forgot Bodie's tendency to take what was not his to take, it could have been a match made in heaven.

As it was, it was a match made in hell. The passing days had not diminished Doyle's anger. Even as he had been making wild, savage love with Bodie, he'd felt the anger, the resentment, growing and festering. When he had decided to cut his partner out totally, the loneliness of the evenings - which he had so often shared with Bodie, drinking mildly, watching telly or chatting up birds - had eaten at him like acid in a raw wound. _Can't live with you, and can't live without you_ , he thought, deeply depressed. _Oh, Bodie, did you know what you were giving up when you did this? Was it worth it, mate?_

The phone rang, interrupting his dark musings. It was Bodie, and Doyle almost hung up the phone when he heard the tentative "Ray?". But he did not, knowing he could not evade the issue any longer. It was time he made his position clear.

"Bodie. I can dream of a lot of people I'd rather speak to instead of you, so let's keep it short. I don't want to see you outside the job. I don't want you to ring me, or to come to my place. I don't want anything to do with you. Is that clear?" Not waiting for an answer, he cut the communication. He could not unplug the phone, for security reasons, and he knew Bodie was likely to call again.

But he did not. He came to Doyle's flat, shouting at the door until Doyle let him in, not wanting problems with his neighbors. But he was prepared, and coldly determined. Bodie had not anticipated being received at gunpoint, and it showed.

Doyle was coiled up like a spring, and Bodie knew he could be dangerous in such a state, so he chose the cautious approach. Lowering immediately his voice, he began by apologizing for his shouting. "I did not know how to get in. Figured it was the only way you'll let me in. Ray... I came to apologize. I've thought about it - about it all. I... I don't want to lose what we have, what we share..."

Doyle's bitter laugh interrupted him. "What we share? We share nothing, _mate!_ Sharing is for civilized people, not for jungle animals! In case you did not realize it, whatever existed between us is finished, over, done with! I told you so on the phone, and I haven't changed my mind. There's nothing more to say. I don't know if we'll be able to work as a team, but I'll do my best, I don't want to lose my job on this. But consider yourself warned: do not infringe any more on my private life, or I'll kill you."

"Ray, I don't understand! Last time we made love, you..."

"No", Doyle interrupted again. "I don't suppose you do. That's the problem. You're nuts, you know that? Real nuts. You belong in an asylum, not loose on the streets. And let me remind you that we never made love. You raped me, and then we rutted like animals. I knew what I was doing. I wanted to get rid of you, of that insanity you'd caught me in. It's done. The coast is clear, and I'm ready to go on. But not with you! Never with you."

Bodie, hearing the finality in Doyle's voice, felt shaken and unsure of what to do. If, indeed, there was something to do. He'd been so sure in the beginning that Doyle would always come back to him. He'd even said it, but now the words tasted of ashes, the ashes of the consuming passion that had held them enthralled for two days. Only, in Bodie's case, the passion was still there, the... commitment? was still there. Appalled, he recognized what the unnamed feeling was.

"Ray, Ray! Don't do this to us, please. I... I love you. I need you..." He let his words trail off, aware he had given a powerful weapon to the man in front of him, a weapon more destructive than the gun that was still pointed at him. He closed his stinging eyes. He had succeeded in spoiling it all, in destroying the friendship and trust between them, in killing the love before it could ever grow. He was not sure he would not prefer a bullet through his head than this knowledge knifing at his heart.

Doyle saw the pain, the defeat, and a dark joy welled in him. He had the power to make this man suffer, to make him pay for what he had done. And pay he would! Bodie had meant too much to Doyle for him to let go easily of what had passed between them, the abused trust, the shattered dreams, the trampled friendship. In a corner of his mind, he was vaguely aware that Bodie may not be totally sane; that this kind of behavior meant that something was seriously wrong with his mind. But he had his own problems to deal with, the horror of enduring a rape, and the disgust of having enjoyed sexual advances from his rapist. True, Bodie had not tried sodomy again, sensing this was the one thing Ray would not - could not - have accepted, but it had left Doyle with his feeling of rage and his desire for revenge, and no outlet for them, as there had been no unwanted move on Bodie's part to fight against.

Bodie stared mutely at him, conscious of the dichotomy in Ray, seeing the anger, but also the crushed hopes that wanted to live, the future Ray was denying to them both.

A cunning light appeared in the cat's eyes, and a slow smile spread on the full, sensuous lips. "You can go now, Bodie. There is nothing more to say, You've said and done it all. I'll see you tomorrow at Headquarters. Don't come back here or I'll be forced to take steps. I won't accept you bullying me into getting in my flat. You're no longer welcome here. D'you get that? Oh, and I'd appreciate for you to take back your things." He went to the couch then, and retrieved a plastic bag in which he had stuffed Bodie's belongings, which had been casually brought and left to Doyle's place as months went by: some toilet gear, a few shirts, socks, a book of Woodsworth's poetry, and a record or two.

Bodie's hands were trembling when he took the bag, and Doyle felt a pang of guilt, as if he had hit a trusting child. Then he remembered the force of the blows that these same hands had dealt him only a few days ago, and the bruising grip that had forced him open for the violation. His hardened eyes met the blue gaze, so deceptively soft. There were lines around the eyes, which he did not remember seeing before, and dark smudges under them. It looked like the eyes of a man having not slept properly in days, mused Doyle, taking pleasure in the obvious distress of his partner. _At least, I'm not the only one having insomnia. I hope his dreams are worse than mine!_

Bodie, clutching the bag, knowing there was nothing he could do, retreated to the door, turned away abruptly and was gone without a backward glance.

***

Doyle watched him go, evaluating, planning, his mind busy in locating the weak points. And there were weak points: as twisted as the feelings were, there was the love confession on Bodie's part. Something he could build upon if he was careful enough. _Leverage_ , Doyle thought. _Once you've got it, you can lift mountains.  
_  
*  *  *

In the following weeks, Doyle found an outlet for the forbidden sexual desires Bodie had awakened. He began roaming the gay scene. He'd been exposed to it as a copper, working with the vice squad. He knew how to be discreet enough not to jeopardize his career, and when and how to let caution go. He managed to bury the need he still felt occasionally for Bodie's body in his encounters with strangers.

His working relationship with Bodie, however, was proving easier than he'd expected. Bodie had not once mentioned again what he had done, or Doyle's refusal to see him outside the job. He did things for Ray in small, unobtrusive ways, fetching coffee for him after a long stake-out, typing the reports he knew Ray hated to do, leaving some cereal bars on his desk when they hadn't had time enough for their meal. Doyle had accepted the little attentions, apparently absent-mindedly, but he was in fact watching Bodie like a hawk, bidding his time.

*  *  *

Bodie, for his part, was beginning to believe that Doyle would someday forgive and forget. His hopes soared when Ray accepted the small services Bodie rendered to him, but he made little more progress apart from these. An invitation to their favorite pub, carefully worded to include both Doyle and Murphy, landed him with a drunk Murphy at the end of the evening, and no Doyle at all, the latter having declined to join them. Murphy had wondered loudly and boisterously why Doyle had not come to the pub, commenting indiscreetly on the fact that he'd seen Doyle lately, alone, in a gay pub that he, Murphy, patronized from times to times. Murphy was very drunk, and Bodie, who knew for a fact that his colleague was bisexual, did not doubt that the story was true. He felt a sinking feeling in his chest as Murphy rambled on about what he'd seen. Bodie knew - he was sure, well, almost sure - that it had been Doyle's first time with a man, that night... So, what was Doyle doing in a gay pub? He wasn't gay, had always dated females... Yet there was the fact of his responsiveness to Bodie's loving, after the ugly experience of the rape. For the first time since it happened, Bodie pondered what the ease with which they'd slipped into making love to each other could have meant. For him, and for Ray.

Bodie knew he wasn't normally attracted to men, and the Game had only been a way of relieving sexual tensions in a place and time where women were not available. Or was it? Bodie recalled vividly the first time he had lost the Game, and had been ridden into the ground by his tougher, heavier opponent. These days were far enough in the past for Bodie to be able to recognize he'd taken pleasure in the enforced submission, in the strong stimulation produced by a man's cock up his arse, the masculine, coarse hands on his flanks and chest.

With a jolt, he came back to the present and to Murphy rambling on about a blonde waitress, and the things he'd like to do to her. Bodie, who had not felt a stirring of desire towards women since his encounters with Ray, was bored stiff. Besides, what he was interested in was to learn as much as possible about what Murphy had seen in the gay pub. Making light of it ("Ray? In a gay pub? Man, he must have been there to meet a grass!"), he managed to steer the conversation back to what he needed to hear. The heavy feeling in his chest increased as Murphy explained what he had witnessed in more details, the way Ray had chatted up a young, good-looking lad, the way they'd kissed in a shadowy part of the pub, and finally how they went out together, which left no doubt about what they were up to.

"Funny, though, for a moment I thought this bloke kissing Ray was you", added Murphy with a silly chuckle. "He was about your size, your build, same cropped hair. Are you sure Ray ain't got a thing for you?" Murphy's eyes took on a faraway look. "And a good-lookin' bloke he is, this mate of yours... might try it myself now I know about him..."

Bodie had endured about all he was able to. He wanted to scream at Murphy "Don't you dare touch him, he's mine!", but he knew he could make no claim. So he sat, stone-faced, mouth compressed, for a while longer, then proceeded to convince Murphy that it was time to go home. Having drunk far less than his companion, Bodie shouldered the task to bring him to his place.

After he left Murphy, Bodie did not feel like going back to his own place. He was tired, but so strung-up he wouldn't be able to sleep. He drove aimlessly for a long time, and found himself at Doyle's flat as dawn was beginning to light the streets. One of the things he sorely missed was the easy comradeship of going to each other's place, him picking Ray up in the morning, or even Ray staying over at his flat and sleeping on the couch after an evening of matey drinking. He decided to take his chance, and to wait for Doyle in the car. Doyle had mellowed, or so Bodie thought. Maybe he'll accept to ride in Bodie's car. Somehow, his mind fogged with fatigue and sleeplessness, it suddenly seemed all important to Bodie that Ray accepted to go to work in his car.

Bodie braced himself for rejection. His heart beat faster when Doyle casually accepted the lift, unsmiling but not overly hostile either. For Bodie, it was progress of a sort in reasserting their friendship, and hopefully their love.

For Doyle, it was but a step in a carefully constructed plan that would ultimately give him his revenge.

*  *  *

In the following days, Doyle dished out calculated doses of what could be construed as overtures of friendship, interspersed with obvious rejection and mistrust. After a few weeks of such an emotional roller-coaster, Bodie began to experience serious problems. Over-tired and nauseous after a night of insomnia - the last of a long list - he was not in a very fit state for the dangerous job he and Doyle were assigned this morning by George Cowley, and that would require all their fine-honed skills. Bodie was well aware that his reflexes were slower, that this could make him a liability, and ultimately cost someone his life - Doyle's, Bodie's own, or some innocent bystander. He knew, too, that his concentration was shot to hell. Here he was, thinking about Doyle instead of preparing himself for the job at hand.

As Cowley explained, the job was basically a body-guard duty. Nothing unusual, as they often played nursemaids to visiting diplomats, as Bodie used to complain. But this time, high officials had been informed that assassination would be attempted on said diplomat, possibly by fanatics who wouldn't care whether they got out of it alive or not. This feature rendered the hit that much more feasible, and the body-guard duty that much more perilous.

Doyle, hell-bent on his search for vengeance, noticed all the signs of the strain Bodie was experiencing, and revelled in the sight. Some part of him knew how dangerous this game could be in their line of work, yet he could not let it go, he had to see it to the end, whatever the outcome. The periodic evaluation of fitness was due in a few weeks, and Doyle knew that Bodie's state would be noticed - glaringly so. He eyed his partner thoughtfully, assessing the tired eyes, the dark smudges under them, the despondency that seemed to hover around Bodie of late, and wondered how Cowley had managed not to notice.

Doyle had always known that Cowley had a soft spot for Bodie. Was it possible that he'd mistaken Bodie's altered countenance for some over-indulgence in booze or sex? Well, he was going to find out the truth soon enough! This time, Doyle wouldn't be there to help Bodie pull himself together, like he'd done after his problem with King Billy and his mob of Hell's Angels. Doyle had felt, at the time, deeply ashamed of his first reaction to Bodie's perturbed, suicidal behavior. He had made up for it later, when Bodie had broken down after an evening of heavy drinking, and had told him how he'd felt compelled to avenge the murder of his former comrade. It was a matter of army solidarity, the "till death do us join" business of Bodie's military past.

No, this time, Doyle would stand back and gleefully watch Bodie destroy himself. If need be, he would give any little push that would send his former friend over the edge.

Doyle had always been one to keep grudges. In this instance he was determined to drive Bodie out of CI5, out of his life and out of his mind. So he invited Bodie to share a drink with him later on, when the job was over and, Doyle added with deliberate cruelty, providing they were both still alive. He had not been wrong about the effect these words would have on Bodie; his partner's cheeks lost all color as he said, with forced casualness, "Yeah, why not? I'll take you to the Red Lion, then. It's a nice place."

"Nah, I'm tired of this same old pub, we'll go somewhere else if you don't mind."

Bodie didn't, he was stunned by Doyle's invitation, would never have dared hope for it. Nervously, he began to prepare mentally for what he was going to tell Doyle, hoping he would listen to the apologies Bodie was keen to make.

*  *  *

The job was nervously exhausting, but otherwise boring, and they were both on edge at the end of the day. Two more days to go, with the hit becoming more and more likely as time passed; it was going to be a very long 48 hours.

They had used Doyle's car this morning, so he drove back to London in exhausted silence, his mood contrasting sharply with Bodie's almost-cheerfulness.

They found a parking place without problem. It was late, and Bodie did not notice anything peculiar about the pub, until it suddenly dawned on him that all the customers were male, and that some of them were holding hands.

Deathly pale, he turned back to Ray, who was in the process of ushering him towards an isolated booth.

"What's this, Ray? Why did you..." His voice faltered and he swallowed a nausea before he was able to go on. "Why are we here? I don't understand." But he did. He could hardly misread the look in Ray's eyes, the smile of utter contempt that played on the full lips.

"Well, we're here because I like this place. I need to unwind after a day like this, and this is where I do it best. Stay if you want, or leave, I don't care either way."

Bodie forgot all his plans for the evening, all his carefully rehearsed arguments. There remained only numbness in his mind. His chest constricted to the point of actual pain. Why was Ray doing this to him? To flaunt what he'd forbidden Bodie to want, to need? He was less surprised than he would have been, had he not had this conversation with Murphy, yet the blow was as hard to take. Unable to really question his motives and underlying problems, as well as forfeit his attachment to Doyle, Bodie was confused anew by what he perceived - rightly so - as a deliberate attempt to unbalance him.

Breathing deeply, Bodie turned to the table and sat down. "I'll stay." He could think of nothing else to say; one more time, he had believed Doyle's apparent almost-forgiveness, only to have his hopes crushed again. Had Bodie been able to analyze his own motivations, he might have understood that there was undoubtedly a masochistic tendency in his personality. As it was, he was only able to feel confusion and pain, without really relating them to his previous attitude towards Doyle, or to the utter disrespect of Doyle's person he had shown the night of the rape.

Doyle, watching the various emotions at play on Bodie's too-open face, thought about the same night. Mellowed by the obvious success of his ploy, he wondered fleetingly why Bodie was taking in all the emotional torment he was being dished out by his unforgiving partner.

Doyle ordered an orange juice - with no vodka in it - while Bodie drank several whiskies. They were tense and silent, each man brooding on the general mess his life was, none of them able to sort it out or make a decision.

Bodie was still on edge with the day's tension, and his surroundings did not improve his mood. Seeing men holding hands and kissing openly was a torture in itself, and Bodie was sophisticated enough to fully appreciate the dark irony - Doyle and himself being together in a place where everyone else would assume, without a second thought, that they were lovers.

After a while, Doyle relaxed enough to begin roaming the room with his eyes, looking for nice bodies or appealing faces. To Bodie's growing dismay, he did not disguise his interest. Finally, the dark-haired man found the courage to question his companion.

"Ray? Does that mean what I think it means? Do you come to this place to..."

Ray let the silence endure for a full minute, then he finished Bodie's sentence. "To fuck? Yes. I found out that I like it - when I'm not forced, and when I'm the one doing the fucking. I might even try getting laid one of these days, if I find the right bloke for it... Nice, and considerate..." Viciously, wanting to know how far he could go before Bodie would leave, or blow up, he twisted the metaphorical knife deeper in the wound. "...Mind you, not an animal with his brains in his balls!"

Bodie went very pale and quiet. Doyle could see his fists closing and opening spasmodically on the table edge. Then the dark-haired man stood up without a word. Visibly shaking, he turned abruptly and made his way to the door.

Doyle was not about to let go of his vengeance that easily; he followed his quarry closely, and saw him lean on the wall at some distance from the pub's entrance. He looked lost and uncomprehending, and something akin to pity suddenly twisted Doyle's heart. This was the man who had ruthlessly violated him, true. But this was also the man who, except on this accursed night, had always been a good and trusted partner, and a friend who did not hesitate to put Doyle's life before his own. That had to be worth something, hadn't it? Yet Doyle could not bring himself to trust again... to _feel_ again for this man. He'd seen the truth of the jungle beast - a truth that may not be _all_ of Bodie, but which was, definitely, part of him.

Doyle was wary of being hurt again. Not physically : he knew he could take Bodie in a fight if he was sober. He was smaller, and lighter, but also quicker, more supple. Yet he was not prepared to take more emotional hardship from his partner. And he was not sure forgiveness was in his nature - or that he could forgive such an offence.

Bodie closed his eyes, and made a small, pitiful sound deep in his throat. Doyle automatically reached out to him, but before he could complete the gesture, Bodie pushed himself off the wall and abruptly fell to his knees. Bending over, he began emitting sounds that Doyle recognized as retching. Numbly, he wondered how Bodie could be sick with the relatively small quantity of alcohol he had ingested. Then he understood that the sickness was probably more mental than physical. His own emotions in turmoil, Doyle felt his resolve weaken. Yes, the offence had been grievous, some could think, unforgivable. But this was _Bodie_ , the man who had disobeyed Cowley's orders on more than one occasion to save his hide; the merry companion of many a romp and many a sleepless night of drinking and double-dating; the shoulder-to-cry-on when life dealt painful blows that had the cursed habit of hitting always the same sore spot; the thoughtful friend who always knew how to pull him out of his periodic black moods and guilt trips.

Yes, this was Bodie, without whom his life was not whole, without whom he would be a lesser man.

Slowly, he put out a hand; slowly, very slowly, it alighted on Bodie's stooped shoulder. He felt the other man shudder as the contact was made. Bodie was quiet now, the vomiting spasms had ceased, but he was still kneeling on the kerb, shaken to the core.

Disbelieving, Bodie felt the tenuous contact. A tremble began in his limbs, caused by pain, fear and hope. He tried to ruthlessly crush that hope. He could not afford to believe one more time in Doyle's forgiveness, in his friendship, for disappointment was too hard to take. He was at the end of his tether, and he knew it.

However, as hard as he tried, hope springs eternal, and it rose from its ashes like some stubborn phoenix. His consciousness concentrated on his shoulder, on the hand resting there.

Then Doyle began to stroke a slow caress on Bodie's clothed flesh, a soothing, almost apologetic movement. Despite the sour taste in his mouth, the burning in his stomach, and the ever-present pain in his soul, Bodie felt that the angel in him, as well as the beast, was filled with the desperate, twisted love he felt for this man. This was the one person he had let inside his inner fortress, the only one who had shattered his detached, cynical approach of life - the one who had loosed the beast and not quite managed to tame the angel.

"Come on, mate, I'll drive you home. You need rest, and so do I. Tomorrow's going to be stressful enough as it is. I shouldn't have brought you here. Come on, let's go." He pulled his unresisting mate up and lead him to the car, still holding his arm, like a bloke helping a friend who'd had over-indulged.  

***

The next day, Bodie was subdued, his fair skin a shade paler than usual, but he seemed otherwise recovered. Doyle had brought him back to his flat, his half-baked apology hanging between them like a festering corpse. Doyle had been unwilling to expand on what he had already said. In fact, he no longer knew clearly what to think where Bodie was concerned. He'd dropped him at his flat after a silent journey. Bodie had been past caring. The upheaval of the last hour, on top of everything he had taken until now, had emotionally exhausted him. He only longed to be alone and quietly break down.

And break down he did. He'd managed to wait until after Doyle's departure, then he indulged in a bout of self-pity and misery-wallowing that lasted most of the night. Not the steadiest of men at any time, in this instance he was losing all his markers. For so long his life had revolved around two pivotal figures; Cowley, the father he'd have liked to have - instead of the alcoholic Liverpool docker who had caused his fourteen years old son to flee from home; and Doyle, brother-in-arms, best friend, and so much more... or it could have been so much more. In a rare moment of insight, Bodie knew that he had destroyed with his own hands his chance at Doyle's love, and his best chance at mental and emotional stability. His only chance? He wondered at it, as he teetered on the edge of sanity throughout the long night. He debated seriously if he really wanted to live, knowing all the time that a man working for CI5 would hardly need to commit suicide - there would be much more efficient and discreet ways to dispatch oneself than putting a gun to one's head.

When the morning came, he was exhausted, mentally numb, drunk on sleeplessness and despair. Nothing seemed to matter anymore. He felt empty and listless, yet he tried to focus on the job at hand. He did not want to let Doyle down in this area as well. He knew it could mean both their lives. Ray's life, since his own did not presently count for much in Bodie's eyes.

***

During the next few days, Doyle's attitude changed imperceptibly, but Bodie was no longer in a fit state to notice. He was wadding in a morass of bleak despair and what could be construed as guilt - or the closest to guilt his crippled soul could come to. The jabs and calculated unkindnesses had abated. They were replaced by a beginning of understanding on Doyle's part, if not acceptance or forgiveness, either of which he did not know if he were able to give.

After the two-days tour of duty to guard the foreign diplomat, which had turned totally uneventful, if still stressful for his two CI5 minders, things had calmed down somewhat. Cowley noticed at last that something was amiss. He assigned only surveillance duties to his top team, trying to fathom what was going on, not having a lot of clues to help him understand.

He resolved to go to Kate Ross. She was the CI5 psychiatrist who had given sound advice at the time of Bodie's lonely search for a wild justice, no longer acceptable for a CI5 member. Since that time, Cowley had kept in mind that Bodie's stability could be questionable. What worried him more was what Ross had intimated about Bodie's old mob's behavior - therefore, about Bodie's: they functioned with a death wish very close to the surface, one that had killed some of them. Even if Williams' death was a murder, he had undoubtedly courted disaster in his way of life, as had most of the others.

As had Bodie, for that matter, for his chosen job could not be said to be one of the safest occupation there was. Bodie could have made more money in one of the private security agencies, with comparatively less risks. But Cowley knew perfectly well that this reckless side, as well as Doyle's idealism, could be used by CI5 to the best of the agency's interests. He was perfectly aware that he had tethered Bodie with loyalty, not to the department, but to two people: himself and Doyle. He was beginning to wonder if the trouble did not lay in the relationship between the two agents.

  
As it was, Cowley's concern only precipitated the crisis. Bodie took very badly to being summoned in his boss' office and questioned about his partner. All that prevented him from falling apart was the certitude that Cowley could not know anything. Whatever Doyle's reaction, would have talked to Cowley right away, not after such a delay. White and tight-lipped, he denied anything was wrong, and so did Doyle when his turn came. Cowley was half-convinced. He put his agents' unusual behavior to the effect of accumulated stress. He thought that the upcoming evaluation would give him more information, as well as underline any discrepancies.

* * *

A few days later, Bodie found himself at Doyle's door, hurting in every bone, more confused than ever. It was quite late; surprisingly, Doyle opened the door without fuss when he heard Bodie's voice over the entry phone. Something in his tone had warned Doyle that Bodie was not in a normal state. In fact, Doyle had noticed Bodie's subdued manners, and was wondering what, apart from the obvious, was eating at his partner. Doyle, for his share, had made a sincere attempt at forgiveness, but hadn't really managed it. Bodie was standing awkwardly at the door, slightly bent as if he was in some discomfort, and paler than ever with dark smudges under his eyes.

Doyle stepped aside to let him in, wondering what it was Bodie wanted, choosing to let him in to accommodate his changing feelings. Not forgiveness, true, but a kind of rueful pity at all that this man had forfeited for one mindless moment of pleasure.

Bodie staggered, and pressed a hand to his ribs. "Oh, god, it hurts! I have to sit down." Doyle eyed him warily as Bodie all but collapsed on the settee.

"What happened to you? You're hurt or something?"

Bodie nodded tiredly. "Or something. I know places where a bloke can go for..." His voice trailed off.

"What? What do you mean, Bodie? You're not making sense, mate!"

There was a pregnant silence. Then Bodie lifted his eyes to the still-standing Doyle.

"Ray... I've been regretting so much what I did to you... I wanted to atone for it... So I went to that place, and... I had these blokes... do me over." His voice faltered again, but the meaning of what Bodie was trying to say, added to his battered appearance, dawned on Doyle all of a sudden. He was aware at once of conflicting emotions - anger, concern, and a deep-seated, shameful pleasure at the depth of Bodie's unbalance. That was what he had wanted, or thought he wanted. Yet revenge tasted of ashes now that he was touching it. 'Having is never as good as wanting', someone once said. How true! He hugged himself helplessly, not knowing what to say or do, realising both their lives were in shambles, and there was nothing either one of them could do to put them right. They'll just have to write it down to life's general failure, to Bodie's murky past and the games he had played as a mercenary, and to Doyle's inability to cope in a mature way with what had happened to him.

Yet there was something he could do. He could tend to Bodie's physical hurts, even if the mental ones were far beyond either his reach or his ability. Shaking his head to clear it, he ordered tersely "Get your clothes off." As Bodie did not move, did not even raise his head, he added angrily, "Do it! I want to see how badly you're hurt. Of all the stupid things to do... Did it occur to you that this is no answer to what happened, to what you did?" Bodie raised his eyes at that, naked pain showing in their aquamarine depths.

"You made it clear that you were interested in revenge alone, Ray. I set out to give it to you. I thought..." Confused, exhausted, he lapsed into silence again.

More gently, Doyle said "Undress, Bodie. I want to examine you. I need my partner in good working order, don't I?"

Totally overlooking the attempt at levity, Bodie complied slowly, his movements visibly impaired. Doyle was appalled at the sight revealed as the layers of clothes went off. Bodie's chest was a mass of bruises and cuts. Some of the deeper cuts had stuck to the shirt, and they were bleeding anew, pulled open by the careless removal of the garment.

The damage did not stop there. Doyle could see bruises on Bodie's abdomen as well. As his partner's hands stilled, he said curtly, 'the pants, too.'

Doyle had a quite well furnished first aid kit. Their job was a dangerous one, and they'd learned to tend to many of their own injuries. He fetched the kit from the bathroom, coming back just as Bodie was dropping his pants. His back was turned to Doyle, and he could see clearly the muscled expanse of flesh, with the deep, old scar just along the left shoulder blade, and a new criss-crossing of whip marks. The buttocks were marked as well, with what looked like nail scratches and welts. Doyle's lips compressed in leashed fury. He went to the settee, spread a bath towel on it for Bodie to lie down. The dark-haired man had not dared to do so, not wanting to bleed all over the furniture. He sat down gingerly, grateful for the support of Doyle's hand under his elbow. His mind was numb, he felt nothing except bewilderment that Doyle was willing to help him.

The hands which tended Bodie were skilled but impersonal. They hesitated briefly on his buttocks, then Doyle saw the blood staining the dark crevice, and swore. "Did you have them rape you as well?" he asked harshly. "I've been fucked", Bodie answered in a low voice, remembering how he'd tightened his anus to worsen the pain, to feel exactly what Ray had felt when he'd raped him; remembering the searing pain as he was forced open, the sense of indignity as his guts were plundered by a stranger, a faceless man fucking an anonymous arse. He'd had a moment of rebellion then, a deep refusal of what was happening to him - what he had made him happen to him. He had quelled the impulse to heave the other man off his back, and to belt him one. He had endured the torture to the bitter end, put his clothes back on and left, without even the luxury of a wash or some medication. He'd driven back to his flat in a haze of confusion. He had showered and changed in his own bathroom, as his clothes reeked of semen and blood. Then he'd sat on his bed and stared blankly at the wall for a long time. Rising from his stupor, he'd went out and driven to Doyle's flat, unheeding of the late hour.

Bodie's musings were interrupted by Doyle's harsh words. "I don't call this kind of damage 'fucking', Bodie. It's bloody perverted to go and get this done to yourself! As if it'd make me happy to see you hurt the same way you hurt me! But I'm not as crazy as all that, am I? Bodie, I told it to you before, there's nothing you can do to atone for what happened. I'll forgive you eventually, when and if I can. But you'll have to stop doing this kind of things, I can't take much more of this craziness!"

Doyle abruptly changed the subject. "Here, let me see to you. I'll have to ascertain you're not bleeding internally." The examination could have been very awkward, but Doyle kept it clinical, impersonal. He found that most of the damage was external, although Bodie's prostate had been mauled and was swollen and painful, but only time would heal that.

What would not be so easy to heal, Doyle thought as he dressed the largest of the back wounds, was their abused psyches. He was beginning to accept the knowledge that Bodie was mentally a very sick man, and that he may not be himself the steadiest of men when it came to his dealing with the rape and its consequences.

Although Doyle tried to be gentle while tending to Bodie, the younger man moaned repeatedly while his wounds were being cleaned. Doyle surmised that Bodie's nervous resistance was at a very low ebb, for he had known him to be hurt much more without uttering a word.

When he was finished, Doyle could not find the heart to send him back to his flat, and he let him doze on the settee. He covered him up with a spare blanket when it became apparent that Bodie was not going to wake in the near future.

Nothing was solved, Doyle mused, watching his sleeping partner from the chair he had pulled near the settee. They were running in circles, each caught in his own problems, each unable to acknowledge the truth of what had happened. Doyle was appalled at what Bodie had just done to himself, at what it meant in terms of mental sanity, or lack thereof. The little he understood about these matters was near to useless, for he did not possess the capability to deal with it.

After a while, Doyle rose awkwardly and went to bed, leaving his partner on the couch, deeply asleep. He heard muted sounds during the night, not enough to wake him properly, but sufficient to stir him to semi-consciousness. The sounds subsided readily, and he went back to a rather troubled sleep.

***

When Bodie woke in the early morning, stiff and unrefreshed, he could not immediately fathom where he was. Then he recognized Doyle's flat, and wondered why his partner had let him stay. It felt oddly warming to be under the same roof as his friend - or was it 'ex-friend'? Bodie was drifting in a sea of depression where every positive move was countered by a negative one. The warmth he had felt at having been allowed to stay died a quick death, and all he could feel was an inner cold that spread outside, making him shiver. He stared blankly at the ceiling.

When Doyle entered the living room some time later, not feeling at his best, Bodie was still on the couch, awake but not aware of his surroundings. He tried to talk to him, to make him react, but drew a total blank. Bodie just laid there, trembling as if he was very cold, despite the fact that the room was quite warm. His eyes - Doyle could not help to admire the long, thick lashes that were giving him doe-like, deceptively soft eyes - were wide open and red-rimmed as if he had been crying.

In fact, Bodie had been crying in his sleep. He remembered it only dimly, in the way one remembers half-formed, half-forgotten dreams. Something had happened in these dreams, some ugly, terrible, unnamed event that had made him weep. He was no stranger to such nightmares, having been plagued by them since his return from Africa. But he usually woke up finding reality somewhat better than the dreams. In this case, reality was worse. It was simply unbearable.

He heard vaguely someone talking to him, but he could not find the energy to listen properly, much less to answer. It was easier to remain in the semi darkness of his own mind than to face up to others again. Particularly to... He seemed to recall there was someone out there, someone he had hurt badly. Someone... special. But that was a long time ago... It was not important anymore. It had happened in... Angola? Ireland? The sluggish morass of his mind prevented memories to come to the fore. With a sigh, part defeat and part relief, his harassed psyche simply abandoned the fight. As the last ember of a forgotten fire flickers one last time and dies quietly, so did Bodie's soul. Like a black star, it finally crumpled in into itself, its heavy core dragging it down deeper and deeper, until it seemed impossible to retreat further. And yet it did. What was left of Bodie felt very small, very safe in that tight-fitting place, dark, welcoming. He heard a distant beating, regular, calming. There was no longer the need for questions or worries, and he went to sleep peacefully at last.

Bodie had no way to know he was in the state psychologists call 'catatonia', one of the most extreme manifestation of schizophrenia. One of the most remarkable, anyway. He could not know that the darkness that had so beckoned to him was a womb-like darkness, or that the sound which had lulled him to sleep was his own heart-beat, a reminiscence of the sound he'd heard when he was in his mother's body.

Doyle had just begun to grasp the fact that Bodie might be mentally unsound - not to mention the fact of his own unbalance. When Bodie failed to respond, he found himself at a loss. Not knowing what to do, he decided to let Bodie sleep some more, not recognizing his state for what it was.

He was forced to take steps when the day wore on, and Bodie, though awake, was still irresponsive. Nothing seemed to make a difference. Whatever Doyle said, Bodie remained lying on the settee, unmoving. Doyle observed Bodie's still face closely for the hundredth time. Oddly, his features seemed relaxed, much more so than the day before.

Doyle cringed at the idea of what would be exposed if he called a doctor, but there was simply no other possibility. He knew for a fact that CI5 took care of its own. Anyway, it was impossible to expose Bodie to a doctor in town. Even when they were physically hurt, there were security procedures to be respected. So he called the CI5 medical staff. Soon matters were out of his hands.

Bodie was still irresponsive when they came for him, but he stood when urged, and walked under his own power. Although he seemed not to understand words, he understood physical prompting. There was little or no emotion on his face now, only a kind of puzzlement. He followed passively whomever got hold of him; friend  or stranger, it made no difference. Doyle knew he would have to tell them about Bodie's physical condition, about what he did to himself. Worse, about what he did to Doyle a few months earlier. His whole world seemed to be crashing down around him, collapsing in a pile of rubbish - had been, Doyle realized, since the night of the rape. Since he dealt so badly with his own reactions, and with what was obviously the beginnings of Bodie's mental sickness. Hindsight, Doyle reflected bitterly. During the ride to Headquarters, he berated himself for his attitude, his lack of comprehension, his manipulation of Bodie's frail psyche. But one thought was foremost in his mind. It sang in his tired brain like a mantra, over and over again.

Too late... too late... too late...


End file.
